


13.04.09

by hollowbirds (torturousthings)



Category: Bandom, Panic! at the Disco
Genre: M/M, Ryden, alternate version of the split, cape town, im sorry, its a sad ending bc well, more like my version of what happened in cape town, that /was/ panic's last show as a four piece band
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-17
Updated: 2017-04-17
Packaged: 2018-10-20 07:33:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,328
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10657857
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/torturousthings/pseuds/hollowbirds
Summary: Ryan wishes things could've worked out differently, but here they are. Cape Town.





	13.04.09

April, 2009. 

 

The hallways of the venue seem much longer than I remember them to be when we got here earlier today, but that might just be because I’m terrified of what I’m about to do. Jon told me it’s best if I do it now, do it fast, but I’m less convinced that this is a good idea with every step I take. I turn left and an open door comes into view. I take a deep breath. The venue’s empty because everyone’s out for a drink before the last show, and this is the moment. I was told that Bren and I’s relationship couldn’t go on, or that the band would have to split. Something about ratings and press and how a gay relationship wouldn’t be good for either of those. It’s this, or no more Panic. I know how much being in the music industry means to Brendon, how much he’s worked for this. It’d kill him if he had to give this up. The crowds make him feel alive, the music keeps his heart beating. So I’m doing this. I’m fine. It’s fine. This is inevitable. It’s for him. 

 

He’s lying on the dressing room sofa, absent-mindedly plucking the strings of his battered acoustic guitar. I can’t see his face, and he doesn’t notice my presence yet. 

 

I could just turn and leave, let Jon do all the dirty work later tonight and never have to face him again, but before I can move, he starts singing softly and I recognise Behind The Sea. He skips the first verse and goes directly into the chorus, his voice enveloping my words, and I don’t know why I asked to sing it during the shows, because this is exactly what I had aimed for. This stripped down version, only him and the guitar, him and the music. The two things I’ve decided to live for, and I’m about to lose one of them forever. He sings that line about God, and I remember. 

 

***

 

 “What does that mean?” Brendon says, pointing to the scrawled words at the bottom of the page. I squint at it because my handwriting’s so bad I can’t even read it back myself. 

 

“Oh, that,” I say and wave my hand dismissively. Angry lyrics aimed at a Saviour that doesn’t exist. Should’ve crossed them out.  “It’s not gonna be in the song, don’t mind it.” 

 

But he shakes his head and looks up at me. 

 

“They’re good, Ryan. ‘We’re all too smart to talk to God.’ This is good.” 

 

I sigh because I know that once he’s said that, there’s no way any of us will be able to change his mind. I sit back into the sofa and hug my knees. I don’t want him to read the second line. I don’t even know why I showed him the original draft because I never do. I never show anyone. These sheets of paper are bits of my mind that I cannot afford to share, and yet here I am, letting him read through them. He’s frowning, trying to decipher my illegible letters, and I let myself look at him, take in his untidy dark hair, his fingers that I know are calloused at the tips, his teeth that are worrying his lower lip. His eyes, scanning the paper, taking in bits of me.

 

I can’t believe this boy is mine. 

 

He takes his eyes off the paper and looks up at me. He seems worried now, and I know he’s read the second line. He shouldn’t be worried. I’m fine. He discards the sheet on the table and moves in closer, and soon I can feel his breath against my cheek. 

“You’re not— You’re not small, Ry,” he says in a whisper. “You’re my whole fucking world.” 

 

***

I try not to think about how he had kissed me that day. Or how I’m about to break his fucking heart. 

 

I step forward and he must sense my presence because the guitar and the singing stop; he sees me and breaks into a sheepish grin, standing up and leaving the guitar on the sofa. He’s wearing one of my t-shirts over black jeans, and I give up on ever getting that shirt back. Even if I did, I’d have to throw it away. It’ll always smell like him. I notice that the guitar strap I gave him for his birthday yesterday is already attached to the instrument. My heart twists. Yesterday, he turned twenty-two. Today, I’m offering him a broken heart. His own. What kind of twisted fucker would do that? 

 

“Hey, Ry,” he says, and the grin fades when I don’t smile back. “What’s wrong?” 

 

Me, apparently. 

 

I shake my head and run a hand through my hair. His brows knit together in a way that I know too well and I’m tempted to tell him that I just have a headache, that there’s nothing to worry about. That I just needed to hold him. Pre-show jitters. 

 

But that’s not the truth. I am still terrified of going onstage, but I can’t hold him now. That’d be too cruel. He doesn’t deserve any of this, and I don’t deserve him. But he needs to know the truth. One version of the truth, at least.

 

“I can’t do this anymore, Brendon,” I say, and hate the words as soon as they escape my mouth, leaving a bitter taste on my lips. His name had never tasted bitter to me before. I think of what to say that would hurt him most. “I— I’m tired of this. Of us.” 

 

Brendon doesn’t move, doesn’t blink, as if my words have frozen time.

 

His eyes are dry and he doesn’t speak, and this silence deafens me. He casts his gaze downwards. I think of something more to say but I can’t, so I turn to leave because this is becoming too much to bear. I can’t see him like this. I can’t let him hear my own heart shattering inside my chest because that’d only make it worse for the both of us. I’m about to walk out the door when I hear a voice.

 

“Why?” 

 

I turn and see that he’s the one who’s spoken, that this broken voice is his. He sounds weak, I realise, and I hate it. He sounds as if someone’s drained him of every ounce of energy he had, like the fire I loved him for, fuck, that I _love_ him for, has been put out. I take a deep breath. Don’t let him see. 

 

“Because I don’t love you anymore,” I say, and my sentence sounds fake and empty to my own ears, but he seems to believe it. Maybe if he does, then I will too. He shakes his head, frowns, and looks straight at me, looks straight _through_ me, and, for a split second, I’m convinced that he knows. That he knows this is an act, that he knows I don’t mean anything I say. His lips part then press together, and I can tell he’s trying to find something to say. 

 

“You don’t mean that,” he chokes out, and his dark eyes are open wide, like he’s trying to wake himself up from a bad dream. I wish it was a bad dream, that I could wake up with his back against my chest, radiating warmth to keep my heart beating, but the numb ache spreading in my ribcage feels too real for this to be a nightmare. 

 

“I do,” I say, and suddenly it feels like I’m not myself anymore. I’m an actor, and this is just a play. A movie set, and when the spotlights are off, we’ll go back to loving each other. Like we do. Like lovers do. 

 

But his lower lip trembles ever so slightly and suddenly, I’m scared I’ll break down. 

 

“So it’s over,” he manages, and he looks so small, so vulnerable that there’s no way it’s the same Brendon that stands front and centre every night, that makes the whole stage his with his voice and his guitar. I nod, and I don’t look at him. I can’t. 

 

“It’s over.” 

 

He hangs his head, dark strands hiding his eyes. I turn away once more, and move fast towards the door because I can feel my nose prickling. This used to happen a lot before I’d met him, and I know it too well. Next will come tears, and I can’t let him see that. Can’t let him see how much he means to me. My whole fucking world. 

 

But he speaks again before I can cross the threshold. His voice is shaking. 

 

“No.” 

 

I freeze for a second, because he sounds resolute. He sounds hurt. He sounds _angry._ But I can’t see him like this, hell, he can’t see _me_ like this. So I keep going, but he follows me. 

 

“Ryan!” 

 

My name echoes in the empty corridor, but I don’t stop. I hear his steps behind me, and feel a tear slip down my cheek. Fuck. I wipe it away angrily as he grabs my arm from behind and forces me to turn around. 

 

“Ryan, for fuck’s sake!”  He looks at me and his eyes are bright and rimmed with red, his lower lip still trembling, but now I’m not sure whether it’s from grief or rage. 

 

“You can’t fucking do this. Not to me. Not to us. I won’t allow it.” He sounds like a teenager who’s trying to be an adult. I wish we were still teenagers; those days are long gone, and we’re famous now. People see, and the press is everywhere. But we’re here now and the venue’s empty, and he’s standing inches away from me. 

 

I kick into motion and pin him against the wall before he can react. I’m still taller than him, and he looks up at me, daring. My thoughts swirl in my head and I kiss him hard, his head banging against the wall behind him. His hands go up to my hair automatically, tugging at the strands, and his touch is so familiar that it hurts. I taste the saltiness of tears on his lips, but I’m not sure whether it’s mine or his.

 

And I know he knows. 

 

His kisses deepen and he’s asking me why, but I don’t answer and pull away instead. He looks at me and the anger is back in his pupils, and he pushes me away. I don’t fight him. I had to say goodbye. 

 

“You’ve always wanted me more than I wanted you,” I say as dismissively as I can. “So I’m giving you one last taste.” I force myself to smirk. Fuck. I sound so pompous. But if this is what it takes for him to be happy later, so be it. I’ll let him hate me. 

 

“Fuck you,” he counters venomously before shoving me backwards. I stumble and he marches back towards the dressing room. I wipe my eyes and then my mouth, and regret it instantly. That was my last taste of him, and it’s gone. He’s gone. I turn around and leave the corridor. 

 

I never want to see this place again. 

 

 

***

“You’re on in 5!” Zack yells, and Jon is bothering everyone because he can’t find his beloved flip-flops. 

 

“Just go without,” Brendon says drily, checking his guitar one last time to make sure that it’s tuned. He’s wearing stage clothes now, and I wonder where he left my t-shirt. Jon looks up at him and frowns, but shrugs it off. He goes without the flip-flops often enough anyway. I haven’t told him that Brendon and I are over, but I’m sure he’s already guessed because I know I look like shit. 

 

I can hear the crowd and wonder if they’d cancel the show if I passed out. I feel sick, and I don't know whether it’s because of the heat or because of Brendon’s silence. He’s not himself, and everyone can tell. He’s usually the one that chats with the venue workers, that offers to help out with anything he can, but not tonight. Tonight, he casts sour looks to anyone who dares talk to him, and I hate to know that this is all because of me. I want to apologise to everyone, to beg Bren to take me back, to say fuck to Panic and to take off with him. To have him for myself, for as long as he’ll have me. But I know he’d be miserable after the thrill of ditching everything fades, and I can’t have that. I can’t bear the thought of him unhappy. He belongs onstage. Not with me. 

 

Brendon’s talking to Spencer, who’s frowning and nodding at the same time. I don’t want to know what they’re saying. Someone yells at us that it’s time to go on, and Spencer leaves Brendon, who lingers behind, as per usual. He’s the jewel, the last one to go on to build up the suspense. Good thinking, that. Everyone wants to see Brendon Urie onstage. 

 

The show is a blur. All I know is that I fuck up some backing vocals because I’m trying to remember the sound of his voice. We don’t play our guitars facing each other during Time to Dance, and we don’t sing into the same mic during Mad As Rabbits. He doesn't smile at me like he usually does, and I don't expect him to. He barely even looks at me. I do, though. Because I’m trying to remember this moment. Us. Probably the last time I’ll be this close to him. The last time we’ll share something. 

 

So I try to remember every single detail, from his sweat-soaked hair to the smile he’s willing to give to the crowd, to the last “Thank you, Cape Town!” that echoes through the speakers. And I close my eyes. Hear the sound of the crowd, let it become background noise. And I promise myself. 

 

 

I’ll remember. 

 

 

 

 


End file.
